


Holmes is Where the Hart Is

by directedbysherlock



Series: East Wind [1]
Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Action & Romance, BAMF Harry, Crossover, First Kiss, Flirting, Frottage, Harcroft, Hartcroft, M/M, Pining, Pre-Sherlock, Savile Row, Suit Porn, Witty Banter, attempted assination, beginning relationships, making out in the back seat of a car
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-15 15:35:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3452486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/directedbysherlock/pseuds/directedbysherlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Mycroft Holmes and Harry Hart finally meet, make out in the backseat of a car, and fall in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holmes is Where the Hart Is

"Pardon me, just a quick heads up. So sorry for this rude interruption, and my most sincere apologies in advance, but I'm just about to shove you arse-over-tit into your car."

Those were the first words that Harry Hart had ever said to Mycroft Holmes.

Mycroft had been standing in front of his tailor’s shop one sunny autumn afternoon, reading his texts when a shadow suddenly fell across his phone. He looked up quickly, his eyes following the handle of an umbrella draped over an arm, up the lines of a double-breasted pinstripe suit stretched across a broad chest-six buttons, not four, he noted-then up a striped tie, and finally to the composed yet urgently concerned face of Harry Hart.

He had known of Harry Hart for years, but they had never before spoken, never corresponded, had never had any occasion to meet officially. Yet their paths did cross, which happened more often that one might think, as their tailors were situated just across the street from each other on Savile Row.

Sometimes he would cast a surreptitious glance in Harry Hart’s direction and noticed Harry Hart would do the same to him. And once, both caught out at the same time, their eyes met for a few delicious seconds that seemed to last much longer, causing Mycroft’s heart to catch in his chest. But each man had only tipped their heads slightly in acknowledgement and slipped back into their private cars quietly idling on their respective sides of the street.

Mycroft had always known there was something more than met the eye to Harry Hart; but he’d never been able to prove it. He knew where Harry Hart lived. Knew his driver. Knew his butcher. Knew where he preferred to shop for fresh produce. Knew every colleague he associated with. Certainly knew his tailor. In all the years of his agency’s clandestine legwork and all the megabytes of digital CCTV recordings, he had never been able to pry out any secrets about Harry Hart, not from anyone, not ever. This he considered to be his biggest, most glaring failure of intelligence.

But it was worse than that. Much worse. Neither had he been able to pry Harry Hart from his constant, mocking presence in his heart. This he considered to be his biggest, most glaring failure of his own self discipline, which was generally known to be legendary. Harry Hart was a physical attraction he could not rid himself of, a mental fascination that plagued him incessantly, an apparition that haunted his dreams and refused to be banished, no matter how hard he tried. He was in love with this man who had been little more than a figment of his imagination for years.

Mycroft knew his feelings were not professional, and he knew that his colleagues and superiors were beginning to suspect as much, as well; all of which could not possibly lead anywhere good. In short, he had decided to have nothing to do with Harry Hart, lest it lead to ruination for them all. In compensation, there was always the camera footage to watch again and again, and those stolen moments on Savile Row that he hoarded in his mind like precious gems.

But all of that was about to change on this particular sunny autumn afternoon.

“What on earth?-”

That was all Mycroft had time to say before an unfamiliar car careered around a corner with a screeching of tires. Instantly, Harry Hart put one hand on Mycroft’s bum while opening the door to Mycroft’s car with the other, and roughly propelled him forward into the back seat and followed closely behind as as a hail of bullets flew over them. Astonished, Mycroft barely had time to pull himself up into a sitting position to watch what happened next.

By now the car had turned at the end of the street and was coming back for a second try. Mycroft’s driver didn't need to be told to floor it and his car was already pulling away from the kerb, but the other car was quickly closing in.

Harry Hart pressed a button to lower one of the tinted windows, then picked up his umbrella and leaned out and shot, _shot_ at the other car, bullets erupting from the end of the umbrella, much to Mycroft’s further astonishment. Apparently not satisfied, Harry ducked back into the car to toss the umbrella to the floor. He then reached into his pocket to withdraw a cigarette lighter. He pulled the cap off and leaned out again to toss it at the pursuing car.

He immediately turned and threw himself over the top of Mycroft as a shield, pushing him down again into the soft, posh leather seat of the car, Harry on top and Mycroft on his back. One second later an explosion rocked the air around them and the car jumped ahead, having been propelled a foot or two forward with no contact with the ground, debris raining down on top of the car and bouncing off. Then the car landed on its wheels nose first with a jarring bump and a violent swerve to correct its course, and then continued onward at a breakneck speed.

“My god,” Mycroft finally said, dazed. “I think that was right in front of Hobson & Sons! The shop must have been destroyed!”

“Along with that car, hopefully,” Harry said. “The shop was closed, no bystanders should have been involved. And really, last year’s collection was so dismal Hobson’s won’t be missed, if you ask me. ”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, had to agree. It _had_ been a terrible collection.

“Well. I’m sure you can write that off as a gas explosion, what with the way the utilities are so poorly kept around the city these days, wouldn’t you agree?” Harry continued smoothly, looking down at Mycroft.

A sudden silence filled the car and the now smooth feel of the drive as compared to the previous violent jolting reminded them of their reclining positions which could be adjusted since the immediate danger was over. Yet neither man made any attempt to move, their breath finally calming from the previous exertion and adrenaline of the near escape.

Mycroft struggled to mentally pull himself together as he stared back up at Harry Hart, greedily taking him all in. It was not the first time he’d been in danger; people had tried to kill him before. He knew what the stark brutality of a gun in the face felt like, knew how it was to live the longest, sweetest, most nostalgic, quite-possibly-last-few-seconds of your life before a bomb was defused in the nick of time. He was even willing to overlook the umbrella gun and the cigarette lighter explosive device. It was not those things that rattled him; it was simply the man above him, whose hips were pushing down insistently on his own, pinning him to the seat.

Mycroft blinked, then shook his head to clear it. He reached out from underneath Harry and flailed at a button for the intercom, finally hitting it.

“James,” he asked. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, Sir,” the driver answer. “I don’t know what the hell just happened, but I’m fine.”

“Good. To the Diogenes, please. And James, please lower the blackout window.”

***

A solid black partition slowly slid up and the back seat of the car was now was now dark and silent. Mycroft continued staring up at the man still on top, noting every detail of the other man’s face. Under his dark framed glasses, he could see there was a feathering of lines at the corner of the eyes and several new streaks of grey in his hair, lending a maturity to his appearance that was devastatingly attractive. He’d never been this close. It was arresting, exciting, erotic to finally feel how real he was. Flesh and blood, weight and substance, the scent of cologne and leather seats and cigarette smoke all around them.

“So,” Harry finally said. “Alone at last, Mycroft Holmes. I had hoped we might meet someday, but under different circumstances. Harry Hart, at your service.”

“I might have done with a simple handshake,” Mycroft said wryly.

“Well, needs must,” Harry answered, tossing his head to the side to dislodge a rare misplaced lock of hair that had fallen over his eye. “I apologize for this inconvenience. But it came to my attention that you were...at risk.”

Mycroft was intensely aware of the weight of Harry’s body still on top of him, tried to get his brain to work at the puzzle of what was happening; but he was still addled by the sight of those perfectly formed lips and that strong square jaw hovering only inches away. Harry’s right hand lay loosely on top of Mycroft’s thigh, the left flat on the floor bracing him up; one of his long legs was wedged between Mycroft's.

“Risk is nothing new to me,” Mycroft said, a little crossly. “But this particular attempt I was not apprised of. How could _you_ have known, when _I_ did not? Who are you, really?”

“I’m just a businessman. Who came across some information I had to act upon immediately. I would ask you to….to not look any deeper. I should not be speaking to you. Of all people, especially not you. I can't say more...you already know too much.”

“Which isn’t much, obviously,” Mycroft said petulantly, but was somewhat mollified from knowing that these unusual events had led to him lying flat on his back in his car, underneath none other than Harry Hart. Which he had actually fantasized about before. Weighing up the evidence, it all seemed rather worth a failed assassination attempt.

Harry continued to look down at him, a serious expression on his face. “Again, I would ask you not to dig deeper. I’ve risked more than just myself. I could jeopardize everything for having done this.”

“Why ever did you intervene, then?” Mycroft asked.

Harry sighed, resigned. “Let me try to explain, and I’ll leave you to figure it out. I don’t know what you are, but I think we’re not that different. I’ve watched you for years. As you’ve watched me, I know you have. I know what kind of cigarettes you smoke, I know what pattern of tweed you prefer, I know you’re a snob about wine and I know you have a vulnerable weak spot for your brother, just to start with the most obvious.”

Mycroft was startled, it always struck a nerve when people mentioned his brother.

“Is that so?” Mycroft hit back aggressively, almost automatically. “I happen to know you have a fondness for cheap beer, dark pubs, a certain plebian desire to root for the underdog, and you prefer loudly striped ties.”

A smile quirked at the corner of Harry Hart’s lips.

“You’re one to talk. I can remember your very unfortunate experimentation with ascots some years ago.”

Mycroft sniffed, appalled that anyone remembered those damn ascots, much less had the indelicacy to ever mention them again. “Said the man in the double-breasted jacket. A popular choice...in the 1980s…”

Harry Hart laughed softly. “What comes around goes around. Which you must know all about, what with your charmingly antiquated three piece suits and pocket watches…”

Mycroft lifted his chin in stubbornness, narrowing his eyes, roaming over that handsome face and wanting to touch it with his fingertips, longing to brush that stray lock of hair from his eyes. But he didn’t, his unease at being so in the dark about what was happening and his natural reserve winning out over his desire. All just adding further to that impertinent edginess he was famous for, which he didn’t really mean but couldn’t seem to stop.

“Your hair has gone grey,” Mycroft blurted, filling the silence.

“And your hairline has receded,” Harry smoothly shot back. But then he relented. “Still a fine head of hair, though… beautiful color, always was. I always liked a ginger.” He smiled then, kindly. "Let’s start over a bit. In addition to those other things I said, I also know you appreciate fine art, you give generous anonymous donations to schools and museums and animal shelters. I know you love kittens, don't even try to deny it. You smile or laugh when you think no one's watching. And you care about this country and the people who live in it, more than anyone I've ever known.”

Mycroft felt his face flush. “You’ve certainly noticed a lot.”

“A lot,” Harry agreed. “More than you know, probably. More than you might find...necessary...”

“What do you mean?” Mycroft prodded, intrigued. “Such as?”

“You always read before you go to bed.”

“And you always check your e-mail before you go to bed.”

Harry Hart furrowed his brows, thinking. “You jog on your treadmill at 6:00 every morning.”

“You have a boxing club membership on Marylebone Road, which you attend every Thursday night at 8:00.”

“Hmm. You don’t know how to drive, and you go to extreme lengths to disguise that fact.”

“Well, you certainly can't parallel park for shit.”

Harry was quiet, his eyes boring into Mycroft’s. “You sleep alone.”

Mycroft felt suddenly self-conscious. “So do you.”

“You sleep on the left side of the bed.”

“And you sleep on the right.”

Harry’s eyebrows rose, and a whisper of a smile then slid across his lips, a silence falling between them again. The atmosphere was shifting, becoming more electric as they pondered these revelations, knew that their surveillance of each had both strayed so very far into territory so very personal…the silence became deafening, eyes boring into each other’s, hazel-brown into bluish-grey.

“Dammit all, are you just going to keep verbally sparring with me, or are you going to thank me properly?” Harry finally demanded, his voice suddenly ragged, staring down into Mycroft’s face. Then Harry Hart suddenly let out his breath and an expletive at the same time. “Oh, fuck it all.”

His large hands went to either side of Mycroft’s head, holding his face still. He stared down at him, searching Mycroft’s eyes for a sign to stop or go on.

“My God, but you really are every bit as arrogant and aggravating as everybody says you are,” Harry grated out. “And every bit as intelligent and exciting and every fucking bit as sexy as I ever imagined you would be. Have you figured it out yet, Genius? Why I intervened? I would not let anything happen to you, not ever. Not if I had the power to stop it. I would risk anything for you.”

Mycroft, feeling as if he was in a dream, suddenly reached up to take off Harry’s glasses, gently laid them on the floor of the car.

“Christ, I’ve wanted you for so long,” Mycroft answered simply, one hand sliding to the back of Harry’s head and pulling him down to him.

Harry’s lips immediately covered Mycroft's with his own; rough, crushing, tongues intertwining, Harry’s fingers hard and pressing into Mycroft’s head to hold him still while he kissed Mycroft senseless. Years of longing poured out of them, they could not get close enough; lips grazing across cheeks and temples, exploring necks and jawlines. Hands carded roughly through hair, scrabbled at tightly knotted ties; pulled at shirts tucked into waistbands and raked down backs, the car cradling them gently and the silence and darkness of the tinted windows sealing them off from the outside world.

Harry Hart broke away just slightly from Mycroft’s lips to catch his breath. Changing his position, he pulled his hips back then sank down again slowly, deliberately, provocatively; carving out more space to settle thoroughly between Mycroft’s thighs, somehow aligning himself more perfectly and connecting in just the right places. Harry slid a hand down the side of Mycroft’s body, trailing fingertips down his neck, over the knot of his tie, now over the buttons of his fitted waistcoat, taking a moment to toy with the chain of the pocket watch, sliding his hand between their touching bodies to hover over the front of Mycroft’s trousers. He leaned down and covered Mycroft's lips again, now moving over them slowly, almost teasingly, languorously.

As the car traveled and gently rocked, so did Harry against him; the motion of the car and Harry combined with the insistent pressure of Harry’s hand against his trousers was creating an almost unbearably pleasant friction, and between that and Harry’s lips and tangible weight and scent and frankly the mere existence of Harry Hart, Mycroft was growing incredibly hard and he let out a softly tortured sigh, unable to hold it back; he knew Harry had heard him, knew he must feel him against his leg; through the material of his own trousers he could feel the hard length of Harry, too, heard something like a low growl in the back of Harry’s throat and his heart began to race even faster.

Just as Harry’s hand was sliding mercifully inside the fly of Mycroft’s trousers, Harry’s head suddenly snapped up, and he stilled.

“Listen,” he said, his breathing heavy. “Do you feel anything?”

“God, yes….” Mycroft began, his hips arching helplessly into Harry’s hand, his eyes flicking down to where Harry was touching him.

Harry smiled a bit sheepishly, reluctantly pulled his hand away. “I mean about the car. The car stopped. We’re at the Diogenes.”

“Oh god, no,” Mycroft moaned.

Harry leaned down and kissed Mycroft slowly, gently. “I can’t tell you how much I regret we’ll have to cut this short. But I _will_ have you, Mycroft Holmes. You can bet on that. But now I have to go. As you can imagine, there will be some mopping up to do... My car is just behind us.”

They both sat up slowly, straightened ties, tucked in shirts, buttoned buttons, zipped up trousers, recovered a pocket watch from the floor, and finally smoothed down ruffled hair.

Still a bit dazed, Mycroft handed Harry his glasses and then his umbrella. “How..how should I find you?”

“You won’t,” Harry said. “Not until this blows over a bit. I’ll find you. But if you should need anything…”

Harry loosened his tie, reached with his fingers under his shirt collar and pulled out a chain with a charm at the end and yanked on it until it broke free. “Use this only in an emergency, if you need me. This gets you one call. You’ve been a mark once, it might not be over. Call this number, ask for Galahad. If you need to, don’t hesitate to call, promise me?”

Mycroft nodded and Harry put the charm in his hand, closing his own hand around Mycroft’s before he let go. Then he reached for the door handle. “Until we meet again.”

And with that, he exited the car.

***

Later that night, Mycroft sat behind his desk in a satin dressing gown, the fabric a rich plaid pattern of greens and brown and golds. He was nursing a glass of scotch and lazily blowing out smoke from his cigarette, tapping out the ash in a crystal ashtray. He’d had some time to collect himself after the shock of the afternoon, regained his equilibrium. And he had formulated his plan, too full of need and impatience and hope to let things unfold on anyone else’s schedule. That just wasn't how he rolled.

He looked down at the charm resting on the surface of the black leather executive desk blotter. And waited.

He felt him before he saw him. The long curtains by the floor to ceiling windows that gave out onto the garden swirled, more than was possible from the breeze alone. Harry Hart materialized with a gun drawn in one hand, a long silencer screwed into the barrel.

As he stepped into the study, he caught sight of Mycroft. But he did not lower his gun, not just yet.

“What is it? Is everything alright? Are you hurt?” Harry asked in a rush, alarmed. Dressed in a smart suit as always, this one newly, neatly pressed, the white kerchief square arranged just so to peek out the top of the jacket pocket. And a simple dark blue silk tie. More handsome than he had ever been, to Mycroft's eyes.

Mycroft stubbed out his cigarette, stood up from behind his desk and walked around to the front of it.

“I’m fine.”

Harry looked visibly relieved. “Then why the hell did you call? That was your one call, for an emergency!”

“It _is_ an emergency,” Mycroft said, his lips pouting. “I need you. I have a problem, which only you can solve.”

Harry advanced slowly, his head cocked to the side. “What problem is that, exactly?”

“When you left me today, I had a stiffy so bad I had to have James drive around the neighborhood for fifteen minutes before I was decent to go into the Diogenes.”

Harry laughed, lowering the gun slightly. “Same,” he admitted.

“I’m afraid I have a similar problem right now. It was of utmost importance that I saw you immediately. I need you to make love to me, right away.”

Now it was Harry's turn to look astonished, but he quickly recovered and an expression of a different, more predatory sort fell across his face. His steps slowed as he came nearer to Mycroft, his eyes roaming appreciatively up and down Mycroft’s sleek form as he lounged against the desk.

“Are you telling me that you used your call...your _one_ emergency call......for a _booty call_?”

Mycroft shrugged. “Yes. That’s about the size of it. Now come over here.”

Harry finally stopped in front of Mycroft, leaned forward into his personal space and set his gun down on the desk. His arms brushed deliberately against Mycroft as he did, his face dangerously close, hands now resting on the surface of the desk to either side of Mycroft, boxing him in.

“I want to say just one more thing,” Mycroft said, holding out a hand and laying it against Harry Hart’s chest, feeling Harry's beating heart, struggling to retain one last ounce of sanity. “I’ve used my one call. So if you come to me again, it’s your choice, not your duty. You have no obligation to me...just...choice. If you choose to stay tonight, can we agree on this; I will not dig into your business, and you not into mine. We will say nothing of this to anyone. We will be together...but just you as you….and just me as me. Nothing more than that.”

“I can agree,” Harry said, his voice low, husky.

“And one more thing. No more of that irritating ‘don’t find me, I’ll find you’ spy-talk gibberish,” Mycroft admonished, archly raising an eyebrow. “I don't need your favors. You have no idea who you are dealing with. If I want to find you, I _will_ find you.”

Harry sighed dramatically. “You _are_ an aggravating, demanding man, aren’t you?” he said teasingly, then slid his hands up Mycroft’s back and around the curve of Mycroft’s neck, pulling him forward. He kissed him, lingering as long as he liked. Eventually one hand dropped down to the sash at the front of Mycroft’s dressing gown as he nuzzled against his neck. “You’re going to have me running after you all the time, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so,” Mycroft sighed as the gown fell open, underneath which he wore nothing. “And you’re going to love every minute of it."

Mycroft circled his hands around Harry’s waist and then slid them down, settling firmly on Harry’s arse.

“Yes, I believe I will,” Harry murmured appreciatively, taking in the sight beneath the robe...

And that is how it began, Mycroft's love affair with Harry Hart; two of the most clandestine and powerful men in London who each agreed to steal each other’s hearts...but left their secrets to themselves.

**Author's Note:**

> This saga continues with another story I recently posted, "I Never Said I Didn't," if you want to know what happens next!


End file.
